


Wrong One

by ErzaWritesThings



Series: Forgottenverse [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: AU, Mentions of Death, Wrong BWL AU, prequel to Forgotten One
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-07
Updated: 2017-07-07
Packaged: 2018-11-29 00:51:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,508
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11429739
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ErzaWritesThings/pseuds/ErzaWritesThings
Summary: You’re the Chosen One. Not your brother. You. The words reverberate through your head, on loop, loudening with each repeat of them until you can’t hear anything else besides the roaring of your own blood in your ears.The prequel to Forgotten One.The classic 'Lily and James are alive and think the wrong twin is the BWL', one-shot style.





	Wrong One

**Author's Note:**

> Yeah, it's me again. Lots of inspiration, so another update. Yay.
> 
> Anyway, this is the prequel to Forgotten One, which should also be in this series, unless I messed up. I'm new to actually posting stuff on here, so I need a bit to figure out how it all works.
> 
> Warning: mentions of death. If that's triggering to you, then don't read this, because it isn't for you.

Before today, you had no idea that it was possible to feel quite like this; like the rug was pulled out from under you, and a professional dueller had sent a bludgeoning spell straight at your face at the same time. It’s like apparating for the first time; you’re nauseous and shaking, feeling like the whole world has compressed and tightened around you until you can neither breathe nor move.

You’re the Chosen One. Not your brother. You. The words reverberate through your head, on loop, loudening with each repeat of them until you can’t hear anything else besides the roaring of your own blood in your ears. It’s like you’re suffocating. Your heart’s racing so hard it almost hurts. It’s suffocating you, and it’s only been a few seconds. You don’t know how you’re going to last with all this pressure suddenly dropped on your shoulders, like Hagrid had decided to faint and had chosen you to catch him.

‘’Are you sure?’’ You ask, your tongue feeling thick in your mouth and the words coming out heavy and slow.

You try to ignore the way your parents and brother are staring you; the former in shock and the latter in horror. Whether the horror is because Voldemort will now be gunning for you, or because this means your brother will lose his fame, you don’t know. Frankly, you don’t really want to know either.

(You try to ignore the fact they’re looking at you at all - they hadn’t actually acknowledged your presence in years, and this is not the way you’d wanted them to do so. You’d wanted for them to love you, not become their new weapon. It’s hard to ignore the fact that you are going to die, and that your parents will only get even more time with your brother instead of with you.)

(It should have been with you.)

Dumbledore stares at you from across his glasses, looking deathly serious. For once, he is actually saying things in a way people understood. You acutely wish he would speak in riddles like he usually does, so you can pretend you don’t know what he’s saying. You’re not that lucky though. If you were, you wouldn’t have been called up to Dumbledore’s office in the first place. It makes you wish you were still in potions class. Snape hates you, but his spiteful vitriol is infinitely better than this.

‘’Quite sure,’’ Dumbledore assures you. He sounds like he’s trying to make you feel better. He fails at it epically. Being told you just made the number one spot on a maniacal Dark Lord’s hit list doesn’t make you feel safe at all, and there’s not a lot that can change that.

Suddenly, you want to run. You want to get out of this suffocating office and hide. You want to find a place where no one can find you and never come out again. If you’d known what it feels like to get a comforting hug from your mother, you might have longed for that.

You stand up abruptly, feeling the stares of your mother and father and brother burn into the side of your head. They haven’t paid this much attention to you in… well, ever. You hear yourself mumble something about needing some time to process, and flee the office, taking the stairs down two at a time. It takes you only seconds to realize class must’ve ended while you were in Dumbledore’s office; the hallways are crowded. When you pass, people fall quiet and turn to stare at you. They know, already. A moment later, the whispers start.

You duck your head and walk faster. The stares feel like a tangible weight on your back. You hurry back to the Ravenclaw common room and up to the dormitory, your housemates staring at you like you’re their new study project until you’re out of view. You wish you had a room of your own, so you could properly slam the door. Unfortunately, you don’t get single rooms in Ravenclaw, so the best you can do for privacy is closing the curtains around your bed and blasting them with silencing spells. It’s not much, but it would do. Not as satisfying as slamming a door, though.

For a while, you sit quietly, just staring at the velvet of your curtains. It’s hard to get your thoughts together. They’re jumbled and loud and unorganized. It gives you a headache, which you try to ignore. You keep coming back to the fact that you just received a death sentence. Because that’s what this is. Being the Chosen One means you’ll have voldemort and all of his Death Eaters after your blood. That’s more than you can handle.

You’re going to die.

You’re seventeen and your life is at an end. Because there’s no way you’ll survive this. You’re barely an average dueler, you don’t know much more than is taught in DADA - your talent lies with magical creatures, not with fighting. You’re not even a member of that defense club your brother started in his fifth year. You honestly have no idea how you’re supposed to defeat Voldemort when not even Dumbledore is capable of stopping him.

You sigh to yourself and rub at the scar on your forehead. For years, you’d just thought the scar was the result from flying debris hitting you in the face. But apparently, that’s where the Killing Curse had struck you as an infant. Merlin. The Killing Curse. You try to imagine it coming at you, the green light giving everything a sickly hue, it striking you in the forehead. You imagine a searing, burning pain and your magic bubbling to the surface, expanding from your tiny infant body with the force of a tsunami, sweeping aside the curse.

No. Just… no.

You shove the thought aside. You don’t want to think of the fact that you have apparently survived the unsurvivable. That had been your brother’s shtick. You don’t want it. You don’t want that responsibility. But you can feel it, already, pressing on your shoulders like the executioner was already measuring the amount of rope he’d need for you. A lead weight in the pit of your stomach, nauseating you to the point you think you’ll never eat again. You’ll never know how your brother could eat like he did with this knowledge pressing on him. He doesn’t have to deal with it anymore; it’s your burden now.

You already hate it.

For a moment, you wonder how long it has been since you’d gotten the news. You cast a quick _tempus_. It’s been an hour and a half since you were called to Dumbledore’s office. You quietly marvel at how much has changed since then. It's surreal, almost, how different everything is now. It’s not a good change. You’re the Chosen One. You’re going to die.

Dear Merlin, you’re going to die.

Well, at least you had the sense to silence your curtains, you think as you try to stifle the sudden sobs that threatens to escape you. Your eyes water, and you don’t bother trying to stop the tears from falling. You’re going to die. But you don’t want to die. You’re only seventeen. You haven’t even graduated yet. You’re supposed to get your diploma and then go out to make your way in the world. You have a job all lined up already, you’ve already been interviewed and negotiated your contract and everything. You’re expected in North America at the local Re’em reserve in a couple of months, to help care for the herd and collect potions ingredients in a way that’ll sustain the population while also providing enough ingredients to make Re’em-based potions less expensive for the average witch or wizard.

But you probably won’t get to go, you acknowledge to yourself. You’ll probably be dead by the time graduation rolls around. Voldemort is after you now. You can’t survive him. He’s too powerful, and you’re too young and untrained. You won’t stand a chance.

(Your dreams will never come true. You’re going to die before you get to do any of the things you’ve always wanted. You’ll never get to see a real Re’em in real life. You’ll never get to try your hand at making your own cheese or your own wine. You’ll never learn how to play guitar. You’ll never get to explore the world. All you’ll get to do is die.)

(After all, you’re the Chosen One now.)

(Being the Chosen One means to die.)

You try to reject it. This is not what you want. You’ve never wanted this. You are perfectly fine with letting your brother be the Chosen One, you don’t want the responsibility.

_They’re wrong_ , your mind screams at you. They _have_ to be wrong. Your brother is the Chosen One, not you. They’re wrong, wrong, **wrong**! They’ve got the wrong one. You’re the wrong one. You can’t be the Chosen One. You just **can’t** be.

(Because you’re not sure what you’ll do if you are.)


End file.
